


To Go Over

by bold_seer



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Moving On, POV Tony Stark, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-02-29 10:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18776455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_seer/pseuds/bold_seer
Summary: “No,” Strange tells him firmly, on the doorstep to 177A Bleecker Street, the sun in his eyes.





	To Go Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [28ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/28ghosts/gifts).



He has this dream. The surroundings are familiar. He’s been here before. He also knows he’s dreaming. Limited awareness. Glossing over details. Everything makes sense, despite the fact that it doesn’t. The backdrop is Titan, but, and this is the kicker, he’s fighting _Steve_. Who stabs him with a piece of metal. It goes right through. Except, Tony realises, the hurt was already there. Somewhere lower. Not that low. At the centre of him. He’s on the ground.

It’s both a very literal and very figurative interpretation of events. Even in the dream world, Tony’s mind rebels. Fights back, realising something’s wrong. This is years late. They’ve gone through this before. It’s too obvious and on the nose. _You’re not Thanos_ , he thinks. Half of everything. Did that include animals? Plants? How did that plan work out? But that’s not right either. What’s missing isn’t a megalomaniac.

Between lying down and sitting up, Tony snaps his fingers experimentally. To change the scene. It stays the same, dusty and deserted. Steve’s bloody face turns into Stephen Strange, kneeling at his side. Like a damn field medic, one who’s injured. Strange has an angular cut on one cheek. Blood on the other side of his face. Tony blinks. And he doesn’t.

“Hello, Tony,” Strange greets him. Voice calm. Tired. Not too surprised to find himself in this place. Of all the gin joints, in all the dreams, of all the dreamers. He remembers: Strange and a green light. In some time. That’s what viewing the future meant. A movie reel full of spoilers, instead of the unfinished script life threw the rest of them. Tony likes to improvise. There’s something else. Strange has been dragged here. Against his will? Or he’s faced obstacles on the way. Something draining in a way his magic circles, fluid and effortless, aren’t. Time has gone by since they last saw each other. When was that?

“You’re back,” he says uncertainly. Back from what? “You’re all right.” Which is weird, because he’s the one in pain. Dull, but insistent. The blood? He knows he’s seen Strange in agony. Not all forms of torture leave behind a bloody crime scene. Something happened to Strange. Disturbing. “Though you’re not really my friend.”

Tony, no filter. Business as usual. Everything else is in the wrong context.

“Not really,” echoes Strange. Some underlying emotion, difficult to pin down. Answering all of Tony’s questions. None of them. “But I’m -” He falters. “Here. Now.” A careful, neutral statement. Or a _I’m here for you_. For whatever Tony needs. Working out his issues. “What do you recall?”

A sudden stab of panic. Why didn’t he notice? Peter was there. He wasn’t. He isn’t. Gone. Missing. Numb realisation. “Kid was with us.”

In Berlin? This isn’t Berlin. They’re not fighting about the Accords anymore. And who is us, him and Strange? Unlikely the amount of arrogance and ego could ever lead to anything good. Both thinking they know best. Tony talking too much. Strange not saying enough. Provoke and parry.

“No harm will come to him,” says Strange softly. Tony is a savvy businessman. No harm _will_. If New York - Queens - is Peter’s neighbourhood, Earth - America - Tony’s, Strange is a big picture kind of guy on a cosmic scale. Life. Reality. The universe. Peter isn’t his primary concern, or concern at all. But there’s an honesty to his assurance. Tony wants to believe him. “He can’t talk to you right now. Beyond me.”

Tony nods, as though he expected to hear just that. Whatever it means. Peter is on a field trip. With his friends. Doing something. He’ll be back. “So. Doctor?”

On cue, Strange lifts his hands. They have shards sticking out from the back. Strange, playing a part in a surprisingly violent Shakespeare play. Blood. Body horror. Bodies piling up. Not that different from Tony’s experience. “The microsurgery went wrong. It didn’t end my life.” Strange frowns. “That wasn’t what -” Happened, or what he meant to say. “Stop feeding me lines, Stark.” Glares at Tony, the poor prompter with half the pages missing.

If one picture is worth a million words, a million pictures were worth a billion. Only Tony didn’t see what Strange did. And Strange left him. Few words, no directions. “Yeah, no. That’s on you, Doctor Who.” _It’s you who don’t understand_ rings in his ears. Understand what? With some bite, he says, “Should’ve given me more.” Clues to follow. Crumbs. A thread. Where did Ariadne want him to go? “Instead of letting me stitch up the mess, Strange.” Your mess.

He’s Tony Stark. He’s rescued himself from tight spots. The desert. With some help. But some things were too heavy for one man?

Strange’s eyes. Grey, he notes. In this light. Cold steel, sharp too. They clashed before. With words. Maybe Strange is going through Tony’s greatest failures, in his mind, about to list them all, from least to most offensive. Seems the type. Long legs. Long speeches, when he gets into it. Long memory. Unexpectedly, he capitulates. Sort of. “You’re right. But I couldn’t.” Studies the lines on his palms, the secrets there. His hands are shaking slightly. “These don’t matter where I’m now.”

Which is?

Strange clarifies, “Other side.” Magic land. Over the rainbow. Great help. Thanks.

“Painful,” Tony comments. He knows a thing or two about scars, and other injuries. Drawing attention to them is a definite faux pas. But Tony can be everything from the smoothest player in the room to a verbal bull lunging for the china. Accidentally. On purpose. If this is a dream, this is all Tony. Writing, direction, starring in. The great silent film star of this era. Different scandals. And Tony is rarely silent. Strange seems in character, that intense-quiet vibe, but is actually Tony. Probably symbolises some part of his psyche. That’s scarred.

Strange confirms it. “It’s not about me. This is about you.” In that same, determined tone, “Abdominal pain, yes? Either you’ll get an ulcer from the stress, or you already have one.” He takes a look around, the desolate landscape. Sighs, as if Tony should’ve known better than to bring them there. “This isn’t helping. I went through over fourteen million timelines. Fourteen million. A labyrinth, or a maze.” He sounds like a hypnotist, urging someone to quit smoking. Drinking. Having nightmares. Not an unappealing notion. “If you return, every night? You’ll lose your mind.” A whisper, “There’s nothing for you to learn here.”

It’s not a bad dream, though. This dream. But it is a dream, Tony reminds himself. He’s asleep. Dead to the world, when he goes out. Sleep is a vulnerable state. He could be anywhere. In any world. Strange is with him, in this world. Not Tony’s first pick, to be honest, but all right. Ready to pull whatever mystic strings. Tony should be in control. He snaps his fingers again. A remote control without batteries. Depowered suit. “Huh. Worked before.”

Need a pair of red slippers, maybe. Still zen, though. Strangely serene. Is that Strange, his influence? Dream or reality, things should’ve turned uglier much sooner. Usually do. That’s experience talking, not cynicism. This is just talking. Tony has mastered the art. Idly, he asks, “You a good witch or a bad witch, Strange?”

Without a word, Strange flips his hands. Very show, not tell. Or showy. Outfits like costumes. For a semi-secret operation, wizards don’t even try to blend in. Stage magician. Follow him closely. That dangling piece around his neck? Hint: it’s a fake. No jewellery here. Strange is missing his cloak, as well. Holding something red, however. It could be a ruby, or a drop of blood, or a ruby made of drops of blood. This is a dream. It makes sense.

“How you shape reality,” says Strange, an odd note in his voice. Start of something, lets it go. “You already have.” Their world appears hazier than before. But brighter? “We’re running out of time.”

Then Strange casts a spell, or a net. The shards fly out from his hands. Crystallise in the air. Creating a mirror realm, where everything is the same. And different. It’s stunning to watch, a private magic show. Tony knows his fair share of superheroes. He’s built his own tech to do almost anything. This is something else, intuitive logic on another level, but his thoughts jump to science. The joys of exploration. Rediscovering a new element. But then, Tony’s the one creating this.

Strange turns to Tony. Expectant look, seeking permission for something.

Tony’s never been risk averse. With a carefree shrug, he agrees. Plus. Magic may exist, out in the real world, but this, right now, is an illusion. However real it feels. Tony doesn’t particularly like doctors, and he isn’t sure he likes Strange. He trusts Strange not to stab him, unless it’s necessary. Tony can live with that.

Hands trembling, his touch surprisingly gentle, Strange presses the ruby into Tony’s chest, where his Arc Reactor used to sit. It fits perfectly. Puzzle complete. Done. Finished. The final word on the final page. An ending that makes perfect sense. It doesn’t make any sense. He goes along with it.

“All right?” Strange asks, makeshift medical procedure over. Sticking something into someone’s chest counts as a medical procedure. Tony does it for the kicks. And Obie had - but that’s the wrong turn. Hand still resting on Tony’s chest. Forgotten. Deliberate. Listening to Tony’s heartbeat. Steady now.

“Don’t feel a thing, Doc.” A lie that comes out like the truth. The other way around? No pain. Instant miracle cure. Makes him conscious of Strange’s hands. The tremor. His scars. “Those hurt any?”

Strange doesn’t answer, keeping his secrets close to Tony’s chest. Tony doesn’t know anything. About his life, other than seeing his maybe home. Can’t speak for him, without creating a backstory. Are those mundane injuries? Magical? Strange removes his hand.

Tony tries again, “Anything I can do?” Hold. Press. Push.

His buttons, most likely. Tony, insulting people at first sight. Whether they were American icons, or only gods. Was exactly what he did. Strange didn’t enjoy people scoffing at his credentials. For a reason. He was polite until that point, if curt and ridiculously formal. Maybe it was the man, reluctant and wary. The opposite of Tony, assuming familiarity and breaking register when he wanted to. Maybe it was the cloak. Grandeur without delusions.

Strange gestures at his faded robes. “No buttons.”

That’s some literal-minded mind-reading. Of course, Strange isn’t only in Tony’s mind, but a figment of his imagination, projected on a big screen in his brain. Clearly a critic. The super-ego to Tony’s id. Or ego.

“Tony,” Strange interrupts his thoughts. Another mood whiplash. A broken and desperate sound. “You won’t remember this in the morning.”

The shadow of the dream follows Tony into the daylight. He doesn’t think about Strange. For a while.

(Liar.)

...

_Tony, he thinks, closing his eyes._

...

His mind is a bullet train. Tracks in a circle. Inventions come to life, night and day. He stays awake. Sleeplessness and caffeine fuel his creativity. No sleep. In the long run: paranoia. Hyperactivity, if it wasn’t innate. Missed conversations. Grey matter. Instead of grey, everyday matters. In a grey room. A grey complex. Grey clouds visible through the large windows. He wouldn’t know, behind the lenses. When he realises he’s zoned out, the meeting is over. Done and dusted. Everyone from Natasha to Scott Lang has scattered. Disappeared. One person remains standing.

Tony is wearing his sunglasses, a faded rock star. Who’ll reinvent himself by fifty, or retire, or relapse. Never make it. They’re protecting his eyes - tired, red - from the light. Inside, if it’s not a bright day. Or the looks. He doesn’t take them off.

“Anyone who could be a threat to HYDRA,” says Steve. A badly scratched record, with sound distortion. Stuck playing the wrong track. A set list that never changes. It makes Tony wonder if he’s even awake. Having auditory hallucinations? If they’ve jumped, oh, five years back in time.

Steve, in no hurry to leave. Tony wishes he would. Not because it’s Steve, and there are a hundred arguments they haven’t had. A hundred ways this conversation could go not only south, but antarctic. The lack of sleep gives him a headache no amount of caffeine can cure, which takes him right back where they started: _It’s just pain. It’s discomfort._ Great moment for reminiscing.

Like the world’s most stubborn golden retriever, blond and loveable in an annoyingly obvious way - maybe Tony likes cats better, or kids, or robots - Steve doesn’t let it go. “Bruce Banner,” he says with stilted formality. Stiff military posture that screams nostalgia, old news and burying the lede. “Or Stephen Strange.”

Still. Colour Tony intrigued.

“Something Sitwell said. When Nat and I, and Sam, went after HYDRA.” Steve’s expression turns sorry. A big puppy, in the form of a man. Work that forgiveness. “Before Bucky.”

Or, you know, not.

“So?” It comes out more than a bit hostile. As if he’s irritated with Steve. Irritated with himself for being irritated. Irritated about who Steve tries to turn the conversation from. Or to.

Steve gives him a look. Proud attorney, new to the job. Paragon of virtue and honesty, defending freedom. Shedding light on the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Only, the lawyer isn’t under oath. No perjury. That’s the truth. Steve gets to his closing argument, makes it count. “But S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t have anything significant on Doctor Strange in 2014.”

Tony’s checked. Aliens they could deal with, but magic beat the best of them. Mystic ex-surgeon, Strange gave away what he wanted to. If he wanted to. Wong even less. Never revealed much about himself, and not about Strange either. Shook his head when he heard. That hadn’t been the time for getting to know each other. Tony had to do his own digging.

“Get the picture,” Tony says. He adjusts his shades. Projecting indifference, to be contrary. Devil’s advocate. “Fine, HYDRA predicted the future. Shiny stone or not. Someone hits the jackpot, despite the odds. What dreams are made of. It happens.”

Better cut their losses. Leave the wizards be.

A puzzled look forms on Steve’s face, something he can’t figure out. Which sounds mean, but it’s a pretty accurate description. “He saved our lives.” Honour. Duty. Weird relationship with time. Don’t they have a lot in common? Leave Tony out of it.

“Good for him.” The great Doctor Stephen Strange, a remarkable talent. Tony knows dozens of remarkably talented people. “We saved their lives.” A carousel. Roller coaster. Bumper cars. “Last time he consulted magic, or time, or whatever - billions died.” It’s not like Tony doesn’t have his own past sins, the kind of red he can’t scrub off, but good or bad conclusion, that was sacrificing a lot of people without getting a second opinion. “Doesn’t make him Mother Teresa. Suffering is overrated, anyway.”

Speaking of. Why hasn’t Doctor Strangetimes started his own clinic? Magic cure for pain, earn him millions in no time. Possibly there are limitations to what he can do. Or rules against using that sort of healing, unlike the tampering with time. Good intentions only got you so far.

“I know,” Steve answers. Serious and sympathetic. Probably thinking about Bucky.

Then they’re both standing there, without words or arms. An unfortunate pun, really. At least Tony has the sense not to say it out loud. They’re two men who used to be friends. Weren’t friends. Could still be friends? Of some kind. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Steve’s changed. Maybe he wasn’t what Howard made him into. Maybe he wasn’t worse, just different - but Tony’s changed, too.

“You should go see him,” Steve speaks in encouragement. “Not about HYDRA.” The words are bland, inoffensive. Intentionally appeasing. Passive-aggressive. He’s always been good at toeing that line. It’s easy to read a patronising undertone. Why don’t you go make some new friends? Except. Steve’s not even wrong. Perceptive about his surroundings in ways that Tony, forward-thinking enough to sometimes be oblivious to his present, isn’t.

Tasting something bitter on his tongue, Tony sighs. “Don’t think he wants to join the club.”

They should’ve talked. Him and Steve should’ve talked. Before the end of the world, not only after it. Boy Scout earnest, Steve tells him, “Take care.” Be well, sincerely.

Tony nods. “Yeah. You too.”

He watches Steve disappear into the elevator. It’s not a goodbye. Not mending a rift either. After a long, harsh silence, the river’s frozen. A little shaky on both shores. First steps. Meeting in the middle, the ice will probably hold. Before it melts. Eventually. Maybe they’ll have shawarma.

In spite of himself, he smiles. Phoenix from the ashes, right. Magic resurrections.

...

_Stephen has considered sitting down with Tony Stark. Or he would’ve considered it, if Stark was the kind of man who sits down to talk. A stubborn mind is unable to let go. Forget._

_There’s much he could focus on. Key piece though he was, Tony wasn’t the only one he followed in time. There were others. Thor. Steve Rogers. Bruce Banner and the Hulk. Other players: Natasha Romanoff. Clint Barton. Familiar names. Faces. People he strictly speaking doesn’t know, but whose most painful possibilities he’s witnessed._

_In his mind, Tony cuts in, the way Tony would. With something funny. Smart. Insightful. Joking. Which fills his chest with warmth. Sometimes he picks a fight. Rages at Stephen. It’s fair. Deserved. The problem is - none of those people are Tony. A construct, greater than the man himself. An amalgam. Millions of slightly, sometimes significantly different men. Fundamentally lacking, inadequate, because they’re not really there. Not really Tony._

_He breathes out. Opens his eyes, and the images dissolve. Dozens of Tonys dissipate, as his own replicas against Thanos. Mere illusions._

_Returns to his duties. His Sanctum. His lists. Drowning in work. That he knows how to do._

...

“No,” Strange tells him firmly, on the doorstep to 177A Bleecker Street, the sun in his eyes. “Unless it’s a matter of life and death. No billionaires, or Avengers, or chit chat, or coffee dates. I don’t have the -”

He seems weary. Spread thin, as if he isn’t saying that to get rid of Tony. Not entirely. A man on a never-ending night-and-day shift. Takes its toll.

“Time,” Strange concludes, heavy on the irony. He lets Tony in without another word. And wow. Bruce crashing may have been an improvement? At least that let more light in. Place gloomy and forgotten, too dark for shades. For a moment, Tony wonders if coming over was a mistake. If he should head back.

Scepticism must radiate off him, making Strange self-conscious. “Wong’s done what he can, but could hardly perform the work of two men, in two locations. Full time.” He hesitates. Looks to the ground. “Death doesn’t mean everything stops. Small threats. Big threats. Repairs. Bills.”

“Except when everyone bites the dust,” Tony interjects with a definite edge. “Literally. At the same time.” Ghost town apocalypse.

Strange turns sharply, eyes reflecting a range of emotions he rarely shows. Regret, remorse. A spectrum of pain and sorrow that’s harder to interpret. Emotions Tony hasn’t felt since Titan. Now that the world is turning, and its inhabitants suffer - the idea is that they _don’t_ \- from selective amnesia. All but a select few. Biting his lip, Tony realises that if anyone’s aware of the aftermath, it’s Strange. Every possible aftermath, burnt onto his retinas. Haunting his dreams. Not to mention how trippy existence must’ve been inside the Soul Stone. Wasn’t an overdue vacation.

“Contrary to popular belief, not actually here to argue.” Tony isn’t going to throw the first stone, a joke no one’s laughing at. Glass houses, though his isn’t easily broken. The stairs are still hazardous. There’s rubble on the floor. He asks, “You only fixed the roof?” Maybe it’s an illusion. A charm.

“The Sanctum has an extensive library,” Strange explains. No objections to Tony’s curiosity. “Couldn’t let it rain in. The building is important, but no one stays here permanently.” He adds, quietly, “Only me.”

A lot of space for one man. A lot of responsibilities. But what does Tony know. Towers and complexes.

The opposite of if it ain’t broke. Strange and Sanctum, badly in need of something. Unnecessary to say that out loud. Meaner than Tony feels today. He’s been short on friends himself. And overworked to the max.

“I really just use portals,” Strange admits. “Easier sometimes.” Than opening doors? “Though not everyone appreciates it. Every guest.” A tactful, open-ended question. Why Tony’s here. Not demanding anything of him, an explanation. Tony reminds himself why he came. To collect info. Find something real, behind the vagueness of magic.

“Need a hand?” It’s a spontaneous offer, not a plan. He glances at - well. He didn’t notice them at first, but then he did. Wonders if the phrase is a slip-up, regular Tony Stark, or a part of him that does want to play the blame game. For a surgeon, Strange has a hefty amount of blood on his hands. He probably didn’t bloody his hands much before. Brain surgery was all about the finicky details. Finding that one, almost non-existent way to fix things.

Strange definitely noticed, eyes narrowing. Tony keeps talking. “You know me. Or you kind of don’t.” Something shifts, the subtlest change in Strange’s expression, but it’s gone before Tony can decide what, if anything, it means. “A guy’s got a reputation. Sharp-shooting over spells.” That gets him a grimace. Probably distaste at the shooting. Having to pick out the bullets. “I’m pretty, uh, handy.” He didn’t mean - “So, you know. Change of scenery. Working vaycay.”

If he builds and builds and builds. Prepares for the next threat. He actually may lose his mind. Makes 2012 look like a monster under the bed. No bite out of the bedroom.

Strange gives Tony a long look, searching for something. Motivations, intentions. Nothing to find. “All right,” he concedes. Guarded stance becoming tired acceptance. Too proud to accept a hand. Kind enough to extend one. Seeing through the flimsy excuse? What Tony wants isn’t a bonding experience. Maybe Strange is considering tasks he can delegate. With a not-quite smile, he says, “Thank you.”

There’s something reassuring about it.

...

_In an instant, after a million miles, millions of timelines, he acquired specific knowledge and a vision that encompasses much. Like a surgeon, who possesses both. How can he possibly unravel that amount of information? He speaks tentatively._

_And Tony? Tony listens._

...

He keeps returning to Bleecker Street. At weird hours, in weirder moods. Without exception, Strange makes time for him. Opens the door. One night, Tony finds himself wandering down the dark corridors of the Sanctum, as in a dream. It’s two in the morning. Night time. Sanctum time. He feels outside it. Time. On his aimless trek, he ends up face to face with Wong. Strange on a different floor.

“Stark,” says Wong. His tone doesn’t reveal surprise or expectation. He sizes Tony up. It’s clearly not an emergency. Then he shrugs. Mutters something about Strange not believing in sleep either. Which Tony kind of noticed, yeah. Never asleep when Tony turns up, which means he keeps hours as irregular as Tony. Not recommended. But what’s time, or time zones, or jet-lag, when you can step trough a portal into another country? Or somewhere not on Earth. Wong’s statement makes it sound as if Strange is spending his nights doing something significantly more, or less, interesting than he does. Actually, he’s a bigger nerd than Tony. When he isn’t watching over the world - or worlds - he’s gone through libraries. In the plural.

“Strange can’t always help you. Though he tries.” Cryptic warnings, a wizard speciality. Something about Wong seems like he wants to add, _or you him_. He takes one last look at Tony. Finds him either sufficient or inadequate, it’s hard to say, and turns on his heel.

It’s a massively bad idea. Strange isn’t a therapist. Tony really isn’t one. They don’t talk. About the status quo. About 14,000,604 roads not taken. But they talk. Tony talks a lot, drowning out the world. And Strange talks - a surprising amount. Giving out these pieces of himself. Sarcastic and sincere. Dorky, scary competence. He transforms from a caricature of a wizard, or a doctor, into _Strange_. Whose medical knowledge reaches beyond the impressive confines of neurosurgery; Tony knows enough to test him. He’s memorised more music than anyone Tony’s met. (Did Strange seem like a 1960s and 70s kind of guy? He wouldn’t have guessed.) He responds, with smooth replies, to Tony’s opinions about any field. One creative, ambitious mind eagerly following another.

An unusual feeling. Tony has been close to people. None of them are like him. At all. Few understand the _building_ in building a better world. The work you do with your own hands. Tony finds that he can listen. Strange listens to him. He snarks back, at times, but observes. Learns. Considers. In his thoughtful way. Did so on that fateful journey to Thanos.

For the first time in years, Tony mentions the name Yinsen. He likes _some_ doctors. Even surgeons. Occasionally, he says something about the other Avengers. Positive or negative, Strange doesn’t judge. A neutral observer. Or a doctor’s compassion, deep-seated.

Strange speaks about Kamar-Taj. How he was foolish enough to chase a dream, but more stupid to reject what he found. Tony still needs to see the place to believe it. With some sadness, he tells Tony about the Ancient One. Sometimes he speaks about Wong.

They’re not friends, but there’s a foundation. For true understanding? He enjoys getting to know Strange, these segments out of time. Wonders, “You weren’t moonlighting as a wizard in 2014? Pretty sure you had to sleep at some point.”

“Wrong field for that,” says Strange airily. Returns to his reading.

Neither of them comments on Tony’s sleeping habits. They’ve spent more than one night dusting the books and shelves of the Sanctum. Simple, repetitive, mindless tasks. Bleecker Street is nothing like Tony’s usual haunts. Strange is a funhouse mirror that makes Tony taller and narrower, more serious. Doesn’t change the essence.

They shouldn’t get along. Considering he’s had trouble facing his own reflection, Tony should hate his image. The world could barely stand Tony’s ego, and there was Strange, with his superiority complex. He thought. Tony is everything Strange is missing. Everything Strange seems to despise about his old life, reading between the lines. Tony wasn’t humbled by his difficulties. He built bigger buildings. But there’s a comfort in finding someone who understands the reality without speaking. They’ve lived it. They’ve seen it. Sometimes they have the opposite experience. Still experience.

“Something on your mind?” He looks up to see Strange, looking at him, his expression open. The question says, _I can hear you thinking_ , but Tony reads good-natured amusement in his manner. Not annoyance at Tony’s loud, silent thoughts.

There are so many things Tony could ask. He settles for one. Steve’s mission.

After pondering the scraps of info, Stephen replies, in earnest, “Algorithms use data that’s available. To solve a problem that exists, or can be anticipated. Was veering off the road my destiny? I was careless.” No noticeable self-pity, but Tony’s chest turns cold. Siberia was lukewarm, in comparison. “Was it inevitable that I’d come across Pangborn?” He pauses again. “I doubt HYDRA mapped out my exact future.”

They fall into a silence. When Stephen speaks, it’s a private, unprompted confession, as if he’s forgotten Tony is even there. “How could they have predicted I’d choose magic over medicine? When I didn’t know that myself.”

As if he doesn’t care, is simply confiding in a friend.

How did that happen? And when?

...

_He was aware of everything, and everything was suffering. 14,000,000 lives meant 14,000,000 deaths. And then some. Worse than Dormammu. To combat the dizziness, he focused on a familiar element. In the haze, he saw._

_He reached out, and -_

_There was Tony._

...

The orb stops at Tony’s feet. Black onyx, hint of colour. An oversized marble. Or a bowling ball. The set leans more towards Hogwarts than Hobbiton, disappearing steps over cosy English countryside. This feels different. An older, heavier - relic? That’s the word Stephen uses. With more weight to it than Harry Potter. Beautiful, in a dark way. Could keep the secrets of the universe. He’s not the biggest fan of space, but Tony is curious. Too curious. He reaches for the orb.

Before Tony has the chance to pick up and examine the object, Stephen snatches it away. He hisses in pain. The orb falls down, rolls out of sight, and Stephen’s cloak rushes after it with a whoosh. Stephen is clutching his hands.

“You okay?” Without thinking, Tony holds up one hand. Red pink burn, hot to touch. From what? As suddenly, it disappears. That’s magic. Leaving Stephen without injuries. Well. Scarred skin. A tremor.

Another surprised sound. Stephen is rarely this openly vulnerable. Tony has a number of wounds, and scars, but most of them are hidden away. He’s looking at Stephen, looking at his hand in Tony’s, a startled expression on his face. Immediately, Tony realises he’s overstepped. They’re friends, sure. Not touchy-feely friends. Tony is tactile, but neither of them is the hugging type. After a tense moment, Stephen draws his hand away.

“Don’t,” he says in a low voice, avoiding Tony’s gaze. Not explaining things any further. He means the orb. Probably. Tony’s almost certain. A warning against whatever secrets the Sanctum protects. Okay, Stephen dropped the ball. He touched it, and it injured him. If Tony hadn’t worked it out before, this would be the time to realise magic isn’t harmless. Just the beginning. However considerate Stephen is, harm to others.

“Warning labels,” Tony says casually, not fooling anyone. He adds another light touch. “Broke your crystal ball? Get you a new one, whatever holiday you pick. Any date. I’m good.”

“It’s not the future,” Stephen murmurs. “It’s the past.” Looks at Tony. Gives him a mysterious, little smile. “Besides, you have a lot to live up to. I’ve dealt with Thor.” His face turns a shade more serious. “Loki. And Odin.”

Which. What?

The first part of the sentence makes sense. Tony assumed as much, some off-hand comment Thor made. The rest?

Tony is a born entertainer, and an excellent conversationalist. Give him any subject, he can spin a yarn. What he says is always captivating, and most of it is even true, on some level. There’s something about Stephen’s voice, an attractive quality. Call it spellbinding, if not for the pun. Expected. Too easy. Stephen is also more genuine than that implies, trustworthy. Enough to follow him anywhere.

Destiny, written in the stars. Tony didn’t always let it guide him. Life’s what you make it - if you can make something of it. He isn’t oblivious to his privileges. It also makes sense. Somehow. Stephen couldn’t have stayed in the operating theatre, doctor or patient. He found himself elsewhere. The mirror journey to Tony’s necessary turning point, from bad billionaire to defending the world from the real big bad. They both discovered something to believe in. Beyond themselves.

Hours later, he gets it. Finally. Tony is many things, made of paradoxes and contradictions. Cynical, for an idealist. Inherited wealth, but his own man. Selfish and selfless. Slow has never been one of those things.

Something in his chest feels both lighter and heavier at the realisation. Unexpected. Not uneasy.

He never even noticed. Until he did.

How’s that for a magic trick?

...

_Of all the people, he was drawn to Tony. Even in death._

...

With a swift move, Stephen conjures his tea. A ritual. “Do you want anything?” His words linger, expectation in the air. A sentence unfinished, something left unresolved. Underneath his layers, the ones Tony has started undoing, he wants Tony to want something. _This is it_ , he thinks. His one in a million.

_Like you?_

“Time now,” Tony blurts out. “For coffee? Or dinner.” It’s barely lunch hour, but he doesn’t explain it. This isn’t the kind of dinner he’d invite Steve to. Or Wong. Great guy. “Your pick.”

The mug vanishes in an instant, and there’s a question. Can something come out of nothing? Thin air. Can Stephen only make tea if he has tea - leaves, bags, whatever - on hand? Does he borrow them from somewhere? Seems like cheating. Questionable ethics, and Stephen takes that kind of stuff seriously, despite bending the rules of magic. All the way from Nepal? Great for the environment. How does their magic business keep running, anyway? Like this place. Stephen is flat broke. But gets by. Has avoided gifts, any attempt. So far.

He knows Stephen, sum and parts. What makes his uncomfortable. What makes him laugh. (Tony, frequently.) It’s not enough. They’ve been leading these parallel lives. In the same city. In the same business. All this time, Tony never knew.

He was supposed to find answers, on location. Was swept away by a sorcerer. Asked him out. If that wasn’t obvious.

“All right,” Stephen agrees, with so much _feeling_. Glad that they ended up here. In this timeline. With this possibility, whatever follows.

It’s a date.

...

_And so, perhaps, they sit down, and Stephen tells Tony. A memory._

...

On the other side of the world. A shadowy, secluded corner. Tony, unusually silent. Over the table, Stephen’s hands find his, their fingertips touching.

In a teasing tone, Stephen complains, “Your date is here. In this chair.” He must’ve been hard to impress, once upon a time. Probably still is. “Though your mind is an exceptional place. I should know.”

Something clicks.

“That dream,” Tony starts, rushed, in awe. Holding on to inspiration. Discovery. The picture of the puzzle, finding its shape. “You.” Always weird, thinking about dreams when awake. Remembering old dreams, a new kind of weird. Stephen, in his mind. The weirdest feeling. Real? “Is that even - ?”

“It’s possible,” Stephen says slowly. “To remember dreams, after a time. Medically. Psychologically. Emotionally.” He knows it’s not what Tony’s after. Not the only thing. Proceeds carefully. “Spirits can travel great distances. Lift energy.” With sympathy, “I didn’t invade your mind on purpose, Tony. But I did. Ah. Feel you.”

And heal something in him. _I want to know_ , he thinks. About the really ugly ones. Dreams. Realities. Nightmares. Instead he says, “How about it. Me inside you?” Stephen raises his eyebrows. Really, Tony. But he can give as good as he gets. “Your mind. Show me your world.” Creating a fantasy, magic carpet rides in the clouds. Tony means it.

With obvious amusement, Stephen says, “ _World in my Eyes_ , September 1990.” A 1980s and 90s kind of guy, as well. Everything. Perfect, as long as everything involves Tony. “Between _Policy of Truth_ and _I Feel You_ , singles released.”

Right. “That sounds like a working plan.”

Stephen laughs, soft under his breath. Whatever Tony wants.

He does want. To bury himself deep inside Stephen, and stay there. Touch him everywhere. Hear him repeat that desperate, broken _Tony_ , over and over again - _Tony_ , _Tony_ \- until it’s the only sound he knows. A good sound. For Stephen to whisper things into his ear, in a rough voice. Everything he could do to Tony, and Tony would let him. Everything he wants Tony to do to him. He wants Stephen to wrap his damaged fingers around him. Because they don’t matter. Because they do. He wants all of that, the beautiful dream.


End file.
